Everything.
I see bits and pieces of the man I think I knew.
Some touches of his feel familiar, the sex definitely does, and he treats me like a queen.
Today was a reality check that cemented in what I had, what I had in pieces, and my future holds now.
The sight of Bobby today made me sick to my stomach.
His touch, the way he spoke to me like an innocent victim, everything. Bringing his mother with him only proved that he was a boy, not a man. He couldn’t get me to sway his side by himself, but needed to bring someone to intimidate me to do so.
It was a ploy.
A game.
The marriage was for them, not me, and what I was giving up. There was nothing in it for me. No love, commitment, or emotional security.
It was all fake.
Fake in every aspect, in every word, and it only made Bronte look better.
And he’s currently proving that because he’s out grabbing me a deep-dish pizza from Vizzy’s, a mom-and-pop shop whose delivery times are more than an hour, and he didn’t want me to starve.
I’m spoiled in the little things that matter to me. I don’t need big weddings and trips to luxury vacations like Paris.
I like things like pizza and carousel rides in the middle of winter.
Sifting through my closet for the third time, I mentally debate between a green and a red dress, both statements of their own.
The green is classic girlie-girl. It frays out at the hips, but it might be better suited for a charity event than a New Year’s party, but I’m not sure.
And the red is a second skin, too sexy but sparkly and fun.
I study the rest of my closet, landing on a white one that has silver sequins everywhere.
Plucking the hanger, I pull it out to get a better look and, yeah, I think this one might work.
I think.
Biting on my lower lip, I notice a purple dress that doesn’t jog my memory. I pluck some of the fabric and notice it’s a combination of deep plum and black tulle.
Too much.
Getting mildly irritated because I’m being picky, but nothing seems to fit, I inhale and remember that I’m not going to a Harding event, that Catherine is going to critique my attire.
I’m going to Boston…which, in hindsight, doesn’t make me feel better because what does that mean?
Sighing, I’m going to leave the dress decision-making for later and finish up my casual packing and necessities, focusing on that to make sure I don’t forget anything, when I spin around and find Bronte staring at me in a daze inside my bedroom.
I smile, but it quickly fades into a frown because it’s not Bronte.
It’s Bobby.
An immediate glower pins and bores into my ex-fiancé’s head.
“What are youdoinghere?” I spit out, feeling a tightness in my chest that only poses as a warning. “Get out.”
“Meirna,” he says softly. “I can explain?—”
